From Flow of Fingers

Love plays the keys he splays, 

so do the ones that come to hear him, which to stay. 

He glides the night, 

a robe of darkness through and through, 

though the lightness does not lay. 

He sits, 

gasps are exchanged, 

and glances flow. 

He plays. 

A soft whimper of tears,

the raging of a water far from which we know. 

Pedals of the bike you rode comes in from where it strode. 

He looks into the faces, 

the onlookers sincere, 

and oh, how it is a sight but not perfectly queer.